essay on the Autobiography of a Postcard

I was a beautiful bamboo shoot in my previous life. My life was cut short and I was sent to a paper mill where I was made into pulp. The various turns in the machinery gave me a new shape and colour and pushed me out lifeless, as a thick card with cream colour. The bundles with no life were sent to the' printing press where a new life is given.

One fine day, the bundle was taken out and the words 'Post Card', 'Address only' along with the Government emblem and cost 25 paise. were printed on the face of the card. Then they were separated by suitably cutting them. Each one of them got a life and a value. I thus got my new life as a postcard and my value was 25 paise. We were 20 cards in a bundle and were despatched to various parts of the country. It fell to my lot to be sent to the General Post Office, Hyderabad. Days passed as we were kept in a stock room with no knowledge of our future.

One fine morning we were taken out for sale. Four of us went to the hands of a young handsome man who from then onwards became our boss. He was a Junior Officer in a firm, living alone in a small house in the posh locality of Banjara Hills known for its scenic beauty and wealthy residents. My new master had a good lot of friends and mostly he was talking to them over phone with no need to use us. Then came his birthday coupled with his promotion. It was an occasion of joy and happiness. He started making use of us as telephones went out of order due to heavy rains.

He addressed me to his girl friend Lata, saying that he got his promotion and also informing her about his date of birth as she is yet to know it. He concluded the letter with words of love. I was despatched to an address at Delhi to carry his message. I was happy that I am carrying a happy message and my life is going to unite two young souls. I was posted in the post office at Banjara Hills. The postman stamped on me the date. Sorting was done. I was put in the bundle going to Delhi which carried many other letters, covers, registered letters etc. Some Air Mail letters going to America and Japan were with us before sorting, but now they got into a separate bag.

I was puzzled. Then an Air Mail cover going to the U.S.A. laughed at me and said "Oh, you PostCard. Don't you know your class? You are the lowest. How could you dream of coming into our bag and travel by air?" I never knew till then that there would be class distinctions even in letters and cards, as human beings are divided into classes of 'Haves' and 'Have nots'. What cannot be cured has to be endured. So I accepted the 'Karma Philosophy' of our land and moved to Delhi.

I reached my destination - No.6., Ashoka Road, New Delhi, and was delivered to Miss Lata. She went through the contents and kissed me, a kiss of love and affection. I was thrilled as that-was the first kiss I ever got from a beautiful lady and thought I achieved my purpose in life. She took me for reading a number of times, whenever she found time and kept me with her for days together. Then came her marriage with her boy friend. With their union I lost my value. I now remain in a cupboard in her room not cared for as a retired old man waiting for his last call. Well, that is the way of the world.